


But For The Grace Of

by Twig



Category: 24
Genre: Day 7, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:36:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twig/pseuds/Twig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dead man can still bleed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But For The Grace Of

**Author's Note:**

> Meant to take place near the end of Day 7 though it was written based purely on 7.01 to 7.04, which means it got completely Jossed.

"I don't blame you for Michelle. Never did." 

The words come without preamble. Saying her name brings a flicker across Tony's eyes, a glimmer of grief over an otherwise barren wasteland. A dead man can still bleed. Jack knows that better than most. He didn't ask for absolution from Tony. He tells himself he doesn't need it. He knows who was responsible for Michelle, for David Palmer, but then again, responsibility and culpability aren't the same thing. 

"You and I both know the true test of a decision is whether you'd do it again." 

Tony gives a huff of a laugh. "Trade you in for her? I don't think you want the answer to that question, Jack." 

There's something like a smile on Tony's lips, but it's too hard, too brittle. Men like them don't smile, just cracks on faces marred by mileage beyond their years. Jack doesn't even bother trying. But he can attempt civility. 

"Thank you though, I guess." 

Another one of those breathless little laughs. "Don't strain yourself." Tony breathes deep. Once, twice. "What I'm trying to say is... I made my own decisions."

"I know that." 

"Do you?" 

Tony is looking at him, and Jack finds it difficult to meet that gaze, never mind that there is nowhere else for him to look. Hours have passed, and little bits and pieces of Tony have fallen away with them, like chips from a stone. But it doesn't change a goddamn thing. Glimpses of the past don't make for a whole. Jack can see the old Tony sometimes, but this is a new man, one who crossed the line. There is never any going back. 

One compromise, Jack had said once. 

And yet. He's compromised, too. More than once. Maybe not in the direction Tony has gone, but there are places inside Jack that will never be made whole. Jack has done a lot; too much, not enough. The look on Tony's face reminds him of deeds committed that cannot be undone. It makes him angry. Jack would rather be angry. 

"Yes, I * _do_ * know, Tony. Your integrity is all you have." 

Tony doesn't even have the decency to flinch. "Integrity? You give up everything, everything you love, everything you are, and for what?" He snorts. "I guess it's nice when they call you a hero. If you're lucky."

"Neither of us has been all that lucky." 

Tony smiles, an expression that's hardly more than a grimace, and he doesn't say more. Jack spares Tony a glance, then looks away again. He knows what this is, and he doesn't want a damn thing to do with Tony making his peace. There is no justification, no explanation good enough. Tony turned and that's enough to earn Jack's judgement. But it doesn't change this wreckage that sits inside his chest, carving him from the inside out. 

Because somewhere along the way, Tony became just one more regret, one more person, situation, * _thing_ *, that can't be helped no matter the best of Jack's intentions. On the number dispenser of Jack's life, Tony was, at his luckiest, #19. They were never quite friends, not in the way the word usually implies. No football games, no beers in favorite trashy bars, no pilot and wingman nights out. Jack isn't even sure he can honestly say he's ever * _liked_ * Tony, and he's certain the feeling is mutual. But Jack's trusted Tony with his life; the word "friends" doesn't even come close. 

And now Tony's all he's got left. 

It's a pretty brutal joke, then, for them to be stuck in this room that's little more than a box with a couple of hours of air to share between them, except Tony won't last even that long if they don't get out soon. A bad car wreck and a final showdown with Emerson have left them both mangled. Tony bore the brunt, and now he's got a bleeder somewhere inside. Probably not the spleen or Tony'd be dead already, but speculating on biology doesn't give Jack any comfort. 

"I'm not like you, Jack." The words are a whisper. In this space, neither of them needs to shout, but Tony sounds faint. "I can't live on integrity." 

"I hope that's not some kind of an excuse." 

"Revenge was all I had to live for. Not right. Not wrong. Just hurt. Whatever way it comes."

"I'm not your goddamn priest, Tony. You're not going to get forgiveness from me." 

"Oh, don't worry, Jack, I know better than to expect any from you." 

Jack doesn't let his expression change. 

"This is * _not_ * the conversation we should be having," he snarls instead. 

"Then let's have the conversation we haven't been having. Like how long do you think we've got, huh?" Jack won't look away this time. He stares, but Tony only stares right back. "I'm good as dead anyway, no point dragging this out." 

"Chloe and Bill will find us." 

"I'm sure they will. Just a question of whether Bill will find one body or two." 

"Dammit, Tony." 

"No, you * _listen_ * to me. Even if I don't end up dying on a table, I remember somebody telling me about international terrorism charges. The death penalty? I'm not walking away from this one way or another. So just * _do it_ *, Jack. I'd rather it be you." 

Getting heated does Tony no favors. His breaths grow shallow, labored. The raw edge of desperation creeps in. Jack hates the sight of it. 

"You really think dying to give me a scrap chance will make up for what you've done?" 

Tony's exhale is supposed to be a laugh. "It'd be a start, yeah." 

"That's not redemption. That's not even atonement." 

"God * _damn_ * you, Jack!" 

But there, in Tony's eyes, is a plea, pitiably soft. Fury surges, bitter and quick, and Jack pushes himself closer. If Tony wants to be put out of his misery, then fine. So be it. Give up. Turn. Fall prey to weakness. Tony falls easily, readily, against him, and Jack near-cradles Tony's body against his own, wrapping his arm around Tony's neck from behind. Tony leans back without resistance, not an ounce of tension in his shoulders where they meet Jack's chest. 

But as easily as the anger rose, it falls away. Jack swallows hard, ready to tighten his hold. This is justice for what Tony has done and mercy for Tony's conscience. One last act for the sake of the good man Tony once was. Except he still is, somewhere, by some definition. Jack was a man who once cut his boundaries in granite, but the lines have shifted, more like the shore now than the edge of the earth. Integrity is cold comfort when he's got his arm around Tony's neck. Tony, the last man alive who * _knows_ *, truly knows what it's like. 

Unwillingly, Jack remembers what Emerson told him. Only someone who has looked over the edge can understand. 

All Jack has to do is squeeze. Like falling asleep. Easy. Practically gentle. It'd be like a gift. 

"I'm not like you," Tony whispers again. 

Jack has heard this tone before; the memory is indelible. Tony, in his arms, dying. A whisper on his lips. A man letting go, a man wanting to be let go of. And Jack won't abide. Can't. 

Jack keeps his arm around Tony. He rests his cheek on top of Tony's head. 

"I know you're not," Jack whispers. "But I'm not gonna lose you, Tony. You'll just have to live with that." 

Jack keeps his eyes shut against the sting, but he smiles, just a little bit, when he feels Tony's hand around his wrist, lightly squeezing.


End file.
